Why Roxy Doesn't Drink
by ToyzInTheAttik
Summary: Roxy tells a story about her past in Philly and the Misfits bully Eric Raymond for being a clueless jerk. Eventual Roxy/Eric.
1. The Kids Aren't Alright

"I seen some fucked up shit, man. Kids who had a chance, flushing it all down the toilet."

Roxy pushed the offered drink out of reach, her eyes alive with conviction. With pain. "I watched a close friend of mine been stuck on the roller coaster of detox: up, down, dry, wet, clean, dirty. I beat the shit outta some lowlife one time cause he broke her stride, dragging her back down into the gutter then leaving her alone once he saw how broken she was. She'd been dry for months, her best streak ever, and he comes along with his greasy charm, jumping her like his prey, and she too weak and lonely to fend him off. All that hard work me n'the boys had put into building her up, the nights we spent straight, avoiding the clubs and playing video games on whatever couch she was calling home that month, all to keep her going. All for nothin'.

"I mean, it's not like I could have controlled her or nothing. She made her own choices, but that sewer slime was no stranger to her situation, or her vulnerability. There were no secrets in our neighborhood. He took advantage when we had our backs turned. I show up one day to hang with her, gearing up to kick her ass in Mario Bros when I find her wasted, gushing on about how she might be carrying his baby and how he ain't returning her calls. She had actually convinced herself that piece of trash was her ticket outta there. Somewhere in her twisted head, she was seeing the white picked fence with that asshole.

"I wanted to puke. It wasn't Luigi's ass that needed kicking that day, it was Berto's."

"'You're pregnant?' I says to her.

"'Been feelin' nauseous,' she slurred. I could barely look at her.

"My first line of business in that moment was getting her a couple pee sticks. I wanted to know if I was gonna be strangling the cash for her clinic visit outta that bastard before my second line a business, which was jamming her pee sticks into his jugular, no matter their results.

"Both were negative. Only good news that day. Was her relapse making her sick, and her sickness making her wish for some impossible, Cinda-fuckin-rella life. She was smarter than that. Dee knew better! Least the old Dee did.

"I didn't find him till a couple days later, when he caught me off guard. I didn't take time to plan it out and a friend a'his witnessed our little tango. He was gonna rat me out on aggravated assault. What I done to him was brutal. My knuckles are scarred forever from that motherfucker's thick skull. Boys back home said I cracked it, said he's never talked right since. Unfortunately, I couldn't wait around to admire my handy work. I was in LA three days later. Been here ever since.

"That's a whole 'nother story. My point is that I don't drink no more. Dee was my best friend, my only girlfriend back home. We grew up together ditching school to play guitar, picking fights with the boys who thought they're too good for us. We were hot Dee and me. We were supposed to make it big together, to storm LA with a sound they ain't ever heard before. Man, that chic had some pipes, better n'Pizzazz. But not anymore. The drink got her, and it got her good. I wouldn't even wish Dee's fate on a Hologram."

"So, what happened to her?" Eric asked, ice clattering in his glass as he drank. "She uh, you know, ever get help?"

Roxy studied him a moment before shoving off the table, her chair tipping behind her. "Why do I even bother." She headed for the door.

"What's with you?" Pizzazz said with a grunt when Roxy bodily cut between her and Stormer. They had entered moments ago.

"Nothing," Roxy barked from the hall.

Pizzazz exchanged a glance with Stormer before turning to Eric. "The fuck you say to her?"

"Nothing," Eric shrugged. He gestured to the bottle on the table, a mid-shelf scotch. "All I did was offer her a drink."

Stormer's shoulders dropped and Pizzazz palmed her forehead. "You creep."

"How was I to know?" Eric rose from the table, grasping at a clean conscience as he snatched his bottle. "I haven't the time to keep track of you girls'...baggage."

The pair of heavily painted eyes widened before closing in on the misspeaking manager. He turned and found himself pinned to the sink.

Pizzazz ripped the bottle away and took him by the tie. "We'll show you baggage, little man."

"Yeah," Stormer leaned in, blocking his escape. "The kind you pack on your way out."

"Now ladies," Eric pleaded, "let's be reasonable."

"We are," Pizzazz said in a darker voice, tightening her grip. "That's why you're still breathing."

"And you're gonna use that breath," Stormer said with a poke to his lapel, "to apologize to Roxy."

"Apologize?" Eric was bewildered. "All I did was offer her a drink. It was a nice gesture for crying out loud."

"We're tired of your excuses, Eric," Pizzazz roared.

"Yeah," said Stormer. She pointed to the hallway. "Go make it right with Roxy."

"Right now?" he said.

"Yes!" the girls snapped in unison.

"Daugghh, fine." He yanked his tie from devilishly manicured claws and slipped away from his neon threat, mumbling once reaching the door. "I don't have time for these...soap operas."

Pizzazz waited for him to leave before popping the top off the bottle and emptying it into the sink. This action surprised Stormer. "Solidarity?" She tilted her head.

Pizzazz psh'ed. "Roxy's a big girl who can take care of herself."

"What then?" asked Stormer. "It's Eric's favorite. And I'll sneak some every now and then to take the edge off, yanno?"

"You shouldn't. It's piss." Pizzazz tossed the empty bottle out the window. Glass shattered and bystanders shouted from several stories below. "I won't have anything but top-shelf," she paused to flourish, "nectar-of-the-gods on the premises of Misfits Music."

Stormer laughed in irony. "Oh wow, for being the Queen of the Punk Scene you sure are a snob."

The Queen turned, proud of herself. "I know. Now go get me a cake so I can have it and it eat it too."

Brushing off the command with playful eye roll, Stormer made for the door. "Get it yourself. I'm gonna go spy on Eric and Roxy."

"Gross." Pizzazz turned, leaning into the intercom's talk button. "Zipper! I have an errand for you." Stormer was about to leave but Pizzazz continued. "What could Roxy possibly see in Eric? I thought she was illiterate, not blind."

"Who knows." Stormer shrugged. "One thing's for sure, Roxy needs an outlet for her aggression and Eric-"

"Frequently needs his ass kicked," Pizzazz finished and they both laughed at the image. "Suppose it's the perfect match." She paused thoughtfully then shuddered. "Still, gross."

Music: The Kid's Aren't Alright by The Offspring


	2. Designing Woman

_A/N: This fic is the product of many things: real life angst, a study of misbehaving characters, and ignoring the mainstream 'ships. I don't even know how to label it besides, well, classically Punk Rock._

 _Thank you for reading._

Eric didn't have time for this sort of thing. He had venues to book, shareholders to schmooze, technology to steal and lawyers to hire. Apologies weren't on the schedule, not even penciled in over lunch. Plus it wasn't a practice a man of his caliber should bother with. Admitting to wrong-doing was a sign of weakness, the spot of blood that would attract the carnivores. He would be devoured whole and shit back out into the gutter where it all started: not a fate he aspired to.

Eric Raymond couldn't afford to make apologies, but he was making an exception in this case. Not because he feared his eyes being gouged out by fingernails painted in the hot new shade of Electric Banana-not an unhealthy fear to have-but because it had to come to light that one of his girls wasn't as naive as he first estimated. It turned out, The Misfits might not actually be the poseurs all the zines were calling them, and this could be highly lucrative.

Leaked biographies were in high demand, especially with all the mystery surrounding Jem. Roxy's rough start in Philadelphia could be the bait he needed to reel in the critical counter-culture. A staged leak of a private phone call, perhaps a forged journal that was slipped to the press, something that incriminated her as a real and tangible person was exactly the edge they needed to top Jem. It was a flawless plan, one that needed only her participation to execute.

As he drew closer to the recording booth, he could hear his cash cow strumming out a familiar melody. It distracted him from his line of thought. The girls' songs always sounded so different when played acoustically, stripped naked to the minimalist bubblegum they were, shamefully resonant of Jem's sound when lacking their dissonant harmonies and repetitive plunking. He was about to enter the booth when he paused, realizing the sound coming from her D'Angelico was not a Misfits song...rather something that was supposed to be top secret!

He stormed in, snatching the sheet music from the surprised rocker's stand. "Where did you get this?" He folded the paper sloppily and shoved it into his blazer pocket. "The only copy in the building was locked in my desk."

Roxy gave him a once over and shrugged. "Like that's ever stopped me before." She peeled a sticky note from her stand, the same one he had originally stuck on the music. "What the heck is..." Squinting, she attempted to read it. "Guh...Grun-gee?"

"It's called grunge," he corrected, plucking the note from her finger. Her illiteracy overshadowed her delinquency, a pity that forced him down a notch. "It's the next big thing, you just watch."

She nodded once in approval. "I like it. Don't know why you gotta put a whole new label on it, though. Why can't it just be punk?"

Pulling up a stool, he seated himself to her level. "Because, dear Roxy, that's not how the industry works. You can't recycle trends from a mere decade ago. You must re-brand it for a new generation." She made some apathetic sound with her glossy orange lips. He crossed one leg then the other, trying to get comfortable. "Scoff at it all you like but don't forget where you would be without me and my labels."

"Take a hike," she defended casually, her attention divided between him and her strings. "I'd be perfectly fine. Don't need you or anyone to make it out there."

She played a C Minor, crudely, an obvious sign of tension. He pissed her off again, which was the opposite of what he set out to do. This negotiation could prove trickier than he expected. "I..." With an exhale, he took his first awkward step toward that impending apology. "I didn't mean that."

She softened to a C Major. "Yes you did."

"I never implied that you couldn't make it, I merely..." Oh god, he was backpedaling pathetically. "Well come on, we both know your paycheck would be a digit smaller without my help."

Fuck. That didn't come out right.

Her guitar went quiet. She met his eyes after a moment, the painted flame on her left viciously bright. "You seem to want this guitar smashed over your head."

"Hear me out. Roxy," he said with a placating hand between them. "You know the reason Jem tops us in the charts is because of gimmicks. Emmet Benton invested in some kind of...technology that I can't seem to get my hands on, and that's what gives them the edge in winning the masses." He meant to segue into his scheme but found himself detoured into a repressed rant. "This decade is letting technology devour the art. The kids of today are lured more by glitter than revolution and I'd be a fool, no matter how much it pains the kid inside me, not to cash in on the trends."

She met him with only a blank, possibly intrigued stare. He needed to get back on track.

"But you, Roxy, you keep the rebellion alive. Without me, you would be creating the art in its purest form, a commendable career indeed."

"But I'd be waiting tables during the day to pay the bills?"

"Only if you lacked the right approach."

"You mean the right manager."

"No, the right strategy. One can making a living in the underground scene, but you first need to win their hearts."

Roxy paused. "Win their hearts?" She was almost offended. "This isn't Starlite Music, dummy. Misfits don't win hearts we crush 'em."

"Ah, but I know how you can do both," Eric said with a smile, steepling his fingers. He had to word this right. "What you said back there in the break room, made me realize something."

She narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, what's that?"

He dropped his hands, leaning forward onto his knees. "I understand now why you don't show up to the studio glittering with diamonds." His voice softened exactly the way he wanted it to. "Why you drive that godawful Camaro instead of a Porsche, and why you don't join the other two on their shopping sprees, or at least when you do you come back with a significantly lighter load. You send the money back home."

Her eyes fluttered in surprise. It appeared he had successfully flattered her.

"Tony's got his GED 'cause of me," she boasted brightly. "And Fredo was able to save his old man's garage from the IRS."

Eric held her gaze, shifting back to his question in the break room. "And what about Dee?"

Roxy dropped her gaze and became fidgety, using her guitar pick to scratch her head. Eric couldn't help wonder what such a heavy regiment of hairspray did to a person's scalp, not to mention how much bleach was required for that pure a white from a color that originally matched her Sicilian heritage.

He watched as her dark, manicured brows furrowed and quickly deduced that this Dee did not live happily ever after. "I'm...I'm sorry?" he ventured.

Roxy kicked over her music stand and began pacing the room. "If I'd just..." she began, clearly frustrated at herself. "If I didn't...I shoulda been there for her."

This was pure gold. A guaranteed chart topper. Hell, she was even winning his heart which meant the critics would adore her. He had to keep her talking. "Someone had to teach that asshole a lesson."

She fussed with a loose thread on her mangy purple sweater, that thrift store reject she made impossibly sexy. "But I shouldn't a'been stupid about it, getting myself on the cops' radar and having to split. She needed me close by."

He got up and approached her, keeping a safe distance in case she snapped. "Had you stayed in Philly, I would never have heard you play at The Lash. I would have signed some other girl that night."

"She woulda sucked," Roxy countered with pride. She never questioned her own talent. Lowering her chin, she let her voice soften. "It's weird, yanno. Being the one kid that got out. I pop back into the old neighborhood whenever we play back home, just to rub it in the faces of the jerks that doubted me, but I never feel good afterward. Why is that, Eric? Ain't that what the Misfits are selling? The strength to rise to the top. Isn't that suppose to inspire the kids at the bottom? Cause the only time I feel inspired is when I'm in the moment, no matter the size of the crowd."

This wasn't gold. It was platinum. "That's exactly the reason I signed you."

She rolled her eyes. "When you say things like that, you make it sound like you're actually in it for the art, not the money. For a moment I thought there was a human being in this room with me."

That stung.

Crossing the room, Roxy claimed her guitar and slipped it over her head. Her fingers effortlessly found a C but she didn't strum. She just shook her head at him with a cockeyed smile. "It's a convincing act you got there."

She played the chorus of Gimme a Gimmick and Eric scrubbed his face, frustrated, lacking his next move. He got the story but now he needed her permission to use it, and he didn't know how could he do that without being a 'total slime' as she'd probably word it. He needed a new approach.

"When d'you quit playing?" She spoke up over her music, catching him off-guard. "When I broke into your desk, I found an old flyer from CBGB that had your picture on it." She laughed. "Dude, you had some skinny-ass legs. And what happened to all that hair?"

Fighting the urge to turn red, he slid back onto his stool, avoiding eye contact. He knew he should have burnt that flyer. "That was a long time ago," he said lowly.

"Why do hide that from us? You know we'd like you a helluva lot more if we thought you could relate."

"That's exactly the point I'm trying to...daugghh," he cut himself off. He didn't like the 180 she pulled on him, not one bit. This meeting was about her, not him. "Because I'm not here to be your best friends, I'm here to turn your music into capital."

"Bullshit," she declared, silencing her strings. "The share holders don't control you."

"Actually, they kind of do." He scratched the back of his neck, his hair line reminding him of his overdue trip to the barber.

"Then you're a pussy."

He met her eyes. "Fuck. You."

"What happened to the dude in the picture?"

"He grew up."

"Bullshit," she repeated, shaking her head. "You're not just in this for money, not after that lecture you gave me on kids today and a dead revolution."

"You..." He trailed off, knowing he would never get what he wanted if he insulted her. "You wouldn't understa-

"Try me." Her gaze was unwavering. Roxy had unfortunately learned, by association with Pizzazz, how to keep pushing until she got what she wanted. And for reasons beyond him, she wanted to keep interrogating him.

With a sigh, he conceded, figuring he had to give a little to ultimately get what he wanted. "I quit the scene because...because I saw the light, as they say. You can't have a revolution without numbers, and you can't get numbers without a voice, and in this modern age of media saturation, you can't have a voice without money."

She contemplated this. "Our voices say, 'gimme, gimme, me, me me'. The fuck kind of revolution is that?"

He smirked. "A profitable one."

She wasn't amused. "So where does it stop? How much money do you need before you can continue your mission? What even is your mission? What does Eric Raymond have to say to the world?"

His smirk vanished. "I've forgotten."

"Bullshit."

"Stop saying that!"

"Then stop bullshitting me!" She stomped her spiked heel. "Come clean, Eric."

"You are such a mule," he said with exasperation, both irritated and impressed by her perseverance. "My voice...well...Like my old band's music, my voice has gone out of fashion. The mission I set out to accomplish is no longer relevant. Hell, it never was. I was just too naive back then to realize it. The rebellion is dead. It died when radio stations relinquished their voice to sponsors. Popular music is nothing but a cash cow and to treat it as anything but is hypocrisy at its grandest."

For an uncomfortably long moment, she studied him, her intrigue diminishing. "You haven't grown up. You've given up."

"What's the difference?" he said distantly.

"The difference is what you do with the money."

He snorted. "You're so young."

"Screw you," she said with conviction. "You're an addict. Money's your drug and it's killed your voice. Just like the drink did to Dee. You two ain't too different, 'cept your addiction gets to wear the mask of success."

Again, her words stung, this time penetrating deep. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't prepared for this.

"Get the outta here," she waved him off. "I need to practice, and I'm sick of looking at you."

He rose and made for the door, his mind reeling. He couldn't remember the last time anyone cornered him this way. The people in his life are typically too wrapped up in themselves to bother.

"Roxy..." His hand stalled on the doorknob and he turned to look at her. He had to know. "Why do you care?"

She swapped her acoustic guitar for her stage bass, picking out the intro of Designing Woman. The bold, deep sound nearly drowned out her response, which took an eternity to be spoken.

"Because I loved Dee."

Eric left the booth in a haze, saying nothing when he nearly fell over Stormer, who claimed to have dropped her earring. It wasn't until he reached his office that Roxy's words really clicked, and the reason for Stormer's eavesdropping made sense.

Roxy cared about him.

Suddenly, his collar felt unbearably tight. He loosened it and fell into his chair, swiveling to look out over the city. Horns blared and people bustled as normal, oblivious to the upset in his carefully scheduled day. He contemplated his bottle of scotch, the one he kept within reach in case of emergency, but the notion flitted away. He realized he was already high, a natural high. One he hadn't felt in years. One that put him at ease while inharmoniously twisting his gut. It was high he assumed he'd outgrown.

Eric Raymond, manager of Misfits Music, millionaire in the making...was developing a crush.

He fished the bottle out of his desk and pitched it in the trash, a perfect three-pointer. Next time Roxy broke into his office, he wanted to make a good impression. He wanted to show her the he cared too.


End file.
